


The Issue of Time

by Festiveviolet31



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gaby is a badass, Implied Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Mission Fic, Points of View
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Festiveviolet31/pseuds/Festiveviolet31
Summary: While Gaby is on a solo mission, Illya waits and watches the seconds tick by.





	1. Chapter 1

The first gift Illya had ever given Gaby was what Illya believed all gifts should be: useful, practical, well-made. He’d found it in a small store in the village where his mother used to live, on his one day off while on assignment for the KGB. He’d been walking by, his collar up and his head turned down, when sunlight reflected off the shop’s windows, catching his eye. He’d felt ashamed that his first thought that night had been to call Napoleon.

“Cowboy,” was all Illya had said on the phone.

“Peril,” Napoleon had quipped back.

“It is Gaby’s birthday in several weeks.”

“And?”

The American really had a way of driving Illya insane sometimes. Illya waited a few moments before responding. “I am getting her a gift.”

“Ah, young love. I never would have pegged you as the gifts type, Peril.”

Illya had felt Napoleon smirking on the other end, and wished silently that there weren’t several continents preventing Illya from hitting his partner in the head. Illya had focused only to realize Solo was still talking. “Everything’s exciting, everyone’s all atwitter.”

“I am not atwitter.” Illya’s voice had been steely, his finger tapping against the receiver.

“Well, Peril, I must say I’m shocked at the sentimentality of it all. I didn’t even know they acknowledged birthdays behind the Iron Curtain. What’ll it be for Miss Teller, then? A collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets? Perhaps something more intimate-”

Illya had stopped him right there, curses streaming out of him in his mother tongue. With Napoleon waiting patiently on the other end, Illya had finally confessed his idea about the shop.

Napoleon had laughed. “My God, Peril, you may as well gift the girl a set of eyeglasses!”

“Gaby does not need glasses.”

Solo had only sighed.

As was typical, Illya ignored Solo’s advice, completing his purchase the next morning before reporting to Oleg. He’d kept the gift in its original velvet box, tucking it away in his suitcase beneath one of his dress shirts. He’d taken the box out on his flight back to London and turned it over in his hands repeatedly for the duration of the flight. Upon getting back to London, where Oleg had negotiated with Waverly to release Illya for an undisclosed length of time, he had shown it in secret to Solo after several hours of pestering. “Not bad at all, Peril,” was all Solo had said, shrugging, and Illya had snatched the box out of his hands and stowed it back in his bag.

For days leading up to Gaby’s birthday (September 13th, a date seared into Illya’s brain since the moment he’d read her file in secret), Illya had taken the box out repeatedly, debating whether or not to give it to her at all. On September 12th, he’d almost dumped the box in the waste basket and settled with a bouquet of flowers and jewelry at Napoleon’s suggestion.

_Solo was right on the flowers_ , was the first thing Illya had thought once he’d actually given Gaby the gift. He and Gaby had sat on a bench in the park near her flat; his arm had been around her  with Gaby nestled in the crook of his shoulder. The walk had been her only request when Illya had asked how she’d like to spend her birthday, which, in private, had made Illya smile. Under moonlight, Illya had held her hand, running her skinny, warm fingers through his. He’d led her to the bench and presented the gift to her, mumbling “happy birthday” and nothing more. Gaby had opened the small package and looked at its contents for several seconds, saying nothing.

“Do you like it?” Illya had finally asked. He noted the edge in his voice.

“It’s a watch,” was all Gaby had said. It had sounded to Illya like a question, and there had been a funny expression on her face, one Illya couldn't quite place.

“Yes. The same man who made it also made my father’s watch.”

Silently, Gaby had removed it from the box and fumbled to fasten it around her tiny wrist. She’d still had that funny look on her face, and Illya could feel himself gulp away something that reminded him of fear.

“Let me,” Illya had grunted, taking her hand in his and notching it comfortably around her wrist. He’d left her hand in his, and slowly, Gaby turned her palm over to inspect the gift. Without warning, Gaby had turned toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and squeezed him tightly. He could feel her face pressing into the spot between his neck and his shoulder, the spot he often woke up to her snoring into. One of her hairs tickled his cheek.

“I love it, Illya,” Gaby had said, and he’d known that she meant it.

 

It’s the watch Illya thinks of now, his eyes focused past the chess set in front of him. Distantly, he thinks he hears the sound of his own foot tapping.

“Christ, Peril,” Napoleon says from the opposite couch, moving a local Belgian newspaper away from his face to look Illya in the eyes. “She’s fine.”

Illya only looks at Solo for a brief moment before focusing his eyes back to the carpet.

“She can handle herself, you know.” Solo’s voice comes from behind the newspaper this time.

“I know she can.”

* * *

 

If Gaby were smarter, and she often wishes she were smarter, she would have seen the warning signs that her mission would be a failed one. She would have exited the site at the first hint of trouble- that the THRUSH chemists she had been tailing had vacated the manufacturing site hours before she’d gotten there. She would have understood that the surprising lack of security guards was not because Gaby outwitted them, but because the facility was prepared to blow up with her in it.

Of course it all seems so obvious now, Gaby thinks, leaning over the steering wheel of her Lotus Cortina. She had parked the car blocks and blocks away from the THRUSH site, following U.N.C.L.E protocol to the letter. On the passenger seat next to her is her gun. With a tug of pain, Gaby smiles to herself, thinking of the explanations she’ll have to give to Waverly, and her partners, if she gets back to them. “Engage with your surroundings as little as possible,” Solo had told her before she’d left. Gaby thought that had been a rich piece of advice, coming from the man with hot hands and a fondness for expensive things.

Illya had agreed from across the room where he sat at the small kitchen table, sharpening Gaby’s knives. “Do not take same way back, either,” he had said, breaking his eyes away from the blade only to look Gaby in the face. “Assume you are being tailed at all times.” This was far from Gaby’s first solo mission, and at the time, she’d rolled her eyes and told the two men to shut up and let her work.

Now, Gaby wonders how her partners will react to the news. Yes, she’d procured the classified documents she was sent in to retrieve, but no, she hadn’t exactly left without a trace. Although her car is tucked away in a back alley she can still hear hundreds of sirens, all flooding to the manufacturing site. She can still feel the heat from the explosion after a hidden bomb had detonated in the THRUSH factory.

Her exit from the site could have gone better, Gaby thinks with a laugh, cut short by a throbbing ache in her ribs. She’d thrown herself out the third story factory window once she’d heard the first explosion go off beneath her. The landing had not been kind to her as she’d attempted to use a move that Illya had taught her, trying to angle herself toward the ground so that she could roll on her shoulder. The move had not worked. Somewhere in the back of Gaby’s mind, she reminds herself to ask Illya to help her perfect it if she gets back.

_Illya_ . Hazily, Gaby’s mind drifts to her partner. Of course he’ll insist that she should not have gone in alone, that he was right all along. _Maybe he was_ , Gaby thinks as she moves her hand away from her gun to the spot, low on the left side of her ribcage, that is bothering her. He’ll insist that it was dangerous, that it was reckless. When they are alone together, he’ll admit, as with all of Gaby’s solo missions, that he worried about her. _I don’t want to worry you,_ Gaby will say, and she will mean it.

But Illya is not here with her. He is posted up in a cottage fifteen minutes outside of Brussels. He is with Solo, probably playing chess by himself and feeling annoyed by their American teammate. With a small smile, Gaby knows Illya is probably counting the minutes until she is forecasted to get back to him. Waverly had given her two short hours to get in, get the documents, and get out. She was to report back to their safehouse at 1:30 a.m.

Remembering Waverly reminds Gaby to check the time. She brings her watch, a birthday present from Illya, into her vision and squints at the numbers. It’s 1:12 in the morning. _Scheibe_ , Gaby thinks. She knows she needs to move. With a sigh, Gaby turns the keys in the ignition. Suddenly, her exhale turns into a wet cough that shakes her shoulders. When Gaby pulls her hand away from her mouth, she sees the dark stain of fresh blood on her fingers.

Wincing through the pain, Gaby grabs the clutch. The action feels to Gaby as if she is moving her arm through cement. She takes one final, labored breath before pulling out into the street. She can make out the body of the man she’d killed moments ago in the rearview mirror as she pulls away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the minutes tick by, Illya grows increasingly impatient with his missing chop shop girl.

It’s not lost on Gaby that she has seen the same car twice now. It is only a few minutes after she’d left the alleyway; the car, an unmarked coupe, pulling out a few blocks behind her as she exits through the city center. She hasn’t taken the same way she’d come, and for one second, Gaby wonders if the car behind her is nothing as it takes a right turn and disappears.

The coupe reappears just outside of the city.

“Goddamnit,” Gaby groans, and the sound of her own voice is enough to rattle her ribs and send another wave of pain through her side. She’d found a handkerchief in the glove compartment of the Lotus and stuffed it against the wound under her black sweater. She’d found nothing in the U.N.C.L.E- issued car to stop the pain, however.

Gaby’s eyes flit back to the car, following her from two blocks away. It’s either a cop or a THRUSH flunky, she figures. Perhaps they’d been in the alley just after her and found the body of the man that Gaby had killed, the same man that had generously gifted her the deep cut that now throbs at Gaby’s side. Perhaps they’d followed her from the actual site. Perhaps it’s nothing at all, just two men driving home from a bar late at night. Gaby hopes desperately that it’s the last one.

There is a part of her that wishes Illya or Solo was here with her. They would sit in the passenger seat, the passenger seat where her gun still lays, their eyes alternating between the rearview mirror and the city streets around them. If Solo were here, he would probably find some way to make her laugh in spite of the potential threat tailing them from several blocks back. If Illya were here, and Gaby wishes he were, he would be tense, his finger tapping patterns against his thigh. He would try and give Gaby directions on how or where to drive, and she would argue, insisting that she is the one behind the wheel. He would growl under his breath, and in the back of Gaby’s mind, she would feel a tugging deep within her that she would save until the moment she and Illya were alone at the safehouse.

Neither Illya nor Solo is here, though, and Gaby isn’t sure if the ache that she feels is from the bleeding at her side or the absence of her partners. Gaby’s eyes flit back to her rearview mirror. With a relieved sigh, Gaby sees that the coupe is gone. _Must have been a bar hopper_ , she thinks, and the relief she feels is almost overwhelming. When Gaby looks at her wrist to check the time, her knuckles are clenched white against the steering wheel. With an exhale, she opens and closes them, hoping to work out some of the tension she knows she feels but can’t yet address. She is still at work, she is bleeding miserably, and she is only six minutes away from her deadline until Illya reports her M.I.A.

Gaby smiles to herself as she floors the gas pedal of the Lotus. Realistically, she knows that Illya will give her more time, maybe 60 minutes, before he takes action, but he will worry every moment she doesn’t report in. He will begrudge that he respected her wishes about not putting trackers on her, will probably insist that she wear one next time. Indignantly, Gaby will refuse, and Illya will probably accuse her of being too stubborn, too stupid, and too inexperienced.

“You don’t trust me at all, do you?” Gaby had demanded of him during one of their bickers. Two missions ago in London, Gaby had gone awol for fifteen minutes. The fifteen minutes she’d spent gathering additional information, she’d argued, had been invaluable to the mission, had given them an upper hand that Waverly later thanked her for. When Gaby had met back up with her partners, Illya, in his rage and in his worry, had almost beaten one of their marks to death.

“You are wild and unpredictable. Why would I trust this?” Illya had growled. His voice had been dark and husky, and he’d clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides as he’d stood in the living room of Gaby’s flat. The comment had stung Gaby. She’d raised her voice and marched directly into Illya’s personal space, even though she knew he hated when she did that. She’d clenched her jaw and tilted her chin up at him, and yelled. She’d yelled that she was capable, that she was valuable, and how dare Illya accuse of her being untrustworthy. How dare he hurt her like that when he knew what Gaby could accomplish. How dare he say that when he knew how deeply it reminded her of Rome. She’d even called him an ass at one point, and Illya, knowing Gaby was right, had kept his mouth shut, counting the seconds until she was done, letting Gaby scream.

“Forgive me,” was all Illya had said later, kneeling at the side of the bed where Gaby had tossed and turned that night. His eyes were soft, and sad, and his blonde hair had been unusually messy. They’d sat like that in the dark, Illya’s eyes pouring into Gaby, and Gaby trying to think of reasons to stay mad at him. Although she could think of many, Gaby had only placed her hand on Illya’s cheek and rubbed at the stubble just above his lip. With a whisper, she’d pulled at his arm until he’d climbed in beside her. She’d fallen asleep that night with Illya’s arms around her, and in the morning she’d woken up to a warm spot at Illya’s neck that smelled vaguely of spearmint and soap.

It’s the smell Gaby thinks of now as glimpses of Belgium flash behind her. She knows she’s a few minutes after 1:30, and mentally she goes through the list of ways she will atone for her tardiness. Before Gaby can think of a fifth reason, a tug of pain grabs at her.

“Oh God,” Gaby cries. She sees stars as she decreases her speed and pulls to the side of the road, parking the Lotus as pain blurs Gaby’s vision. She moves her hand to her side only to feel the bandana completely soaked through. Breathing deeply through her nose, Gaby thinks she can feel her pulse in her ears. “Oh God,” she groans again, as she touches one finger lightly to the open wound. She roots around in the glove compartment for another handkerchief or something else to stop the bleeding.

What Gaby doesn’t notice is the set of headlights rapidly approaching to her left. In her pain, Gaby doesn’t have time to register the blinding lights getting closer, too close, nor does she have time to understand that the roar of metal meeting metal is in fact a coupe colliding with her Lotus. All she can do is scream as she watches the night sky flip from the top of her vision to the bottom of her vision as glass falls like rain around her.

\----------

“What’s the time, Peril?”

It’s the third time Cowboy has asked in the last twenty minutes.

“It’s 1:49.”

Illya hears a hmm from the opposite side of the room, and he doesn’t have to ask to know what Cowboy is thinking. “Worried, Cowboy?” he asks his partner. Solo says nothing, a beaten up novel in front of his face this time.

“She can handle herself,” Illya says, turning back to a game of chess that is long forgotten. “She can handle herself,” he breathes again, but Solo can’t hear him. Illya says it a few more times under his breath, closing his eyes as his says the words softly to himself.

It doesn’t escape Illya that Solo hasn’t gone to bed yet. Illya notices the line forming between Solo’s eyes. Ilya has only seen it a couple of times, mostly when Cowboy is trying to crack a particularly difficult safe, but occasionally during times, like in Kiev, where Illya was shot in the shoulder and his two partners had needed to drag him out of the line of fire. Once, when Gaby had taken her first real beating on a mission, Illya had seen that worry line of Solo’s again.

“Do you think,” Solo says, interrupting Illya from his thoughts. He stares at Illya for the briefest moment before starting up again. “Do you think she…”

From across the room Illya knows what Cowboy is trying to say, and he feels himself lean toward his teammate. A few seconds pass before Solo finally proceeds. 

“You know what, nevermind.” He turns back to his book, and Illya frowns at him. The wrinkle, Illya notices, has nestled itself deeper between Solo’s eyes.

The issue of time, Illya thinks, is that it moves too quickly. It has always moved too quickly: his childhood had felt like a reel of film, his teenage years and early twenties like one of the bright, loud commercials he found annoying in American television. His years with the KGB had bled into each other seamlessly, marked only by quiet Christmases spent visiting his mother in her tiny village before she had too had left Illya for good. “You are becoming an old man, my son,” his mother would say each time she saw him. Each time, Illya wondered how it could be true.

Illya had never noticed or cared until Gaby. With Gaby, Illya found himself desperately wishing that time, even for a moment, would stand still. And now, the closer the minutes get to 2:00 a.m., the faster Illya thinks he can feel his heart beating. _Any moment now_ , he thinks, almost as a meditation. _She is coming back any moment now_. When the hands of the clock reach 2:00 and then some, Illya finds both he and Cowboy watching the clock on the wall, the same worried expression on both of their faces.

“She should be back by now,” Solo mutters at 2:30. _Yes, she should,_ Illya thinks, although he can’t bring himself to say the words. Instead, he stands abruptly, jostling the chess set as several pieces fall to the floor. He moves swiftly, heading for the cramped staircase leading up to their bedrooms. He hears Solo say his name behind him, can feel the American moving quickly to follow him, but Illya doesn’t pay attention. Illya throws open the door to his room at the top of the landing. With long strides he goes to his closet, where he has hung up none of his things, and starts digging.

" _What_ are you doing, Peril?” Solo asks from behind his shoulder.

Illya says nothing, instead digging for the last suitcase beneath his two bags. When their team had landed in Belgium weeks ago, both Solo and Gaby had teased him for packing so heavily. With a grunt, Illya reaches the buried suitcase and frees it from the pile, flinging it onto the bed and opening its contents.

“What in the hell is that?” Solo asks, his eyebrows raised in confusion. Crouching in front of the suitcase, Illya glares up at him.

“You know what it is.”

“I thought she explicitly forbade you from putting any trackers in her kit?” Solo stares with hesitant eyes at the contents of the suitcase.

“Yes, and I did not put trackers in her kit, or her shoes, or her vehicle,” Illya mutters, flipping the machine on and fiddling with the receiver.

“Then what. The hell. Is that?” Solo repeats.

Illya turns up to his partner, looking him in the face. Silently, he hopes Cowboy will never mention this again, least of all to their third teammate. “I respect Gaby’s wishes when she tells me not to put trackers in shoes.”

There’s a pause between the two men before Illya continues. “She never said anything about watches.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thanks again for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much as I enjoyed writing it. As per usual, I welcome any comments you have for me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo and Illya go after Gaby as she fights her way to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this chapter contains more detailed descriptions of violence. If pain, blood, or near death experiences trigger you, please proceed with caution. 
> 
> An endless amount of thanks to my wonderful, talented, lovely beta and writing buddy, diadema. This story would not be complete without her careful eye and thoughtful, creative voice. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and please enjoy.

“She’s going to murder you.” For several minutes, it is all Solo can say. “You know she’s going to murder you.”

Illya interrupts his partner to instruct him where to turn, what backroad to take. Behind the wheel, Napoleon drums a nervous beat against the leather.

“She’s _going_ to kill you.”

“I know, Cowboy.”

Silence falls between the two men, broken only by Solo and the intermittent beeping from Illya’s tracker. With a glance to his left, Illya can see the wrinkle resurface between Napoleon’s eyes. He has seen this from his partner only a few times before.

“Right here.”

The American swings the car to the right and down another quiet street. They are inching toward the city, the tracker guiding them closer and closer to Gaby.

“Jesus Christ, Peril,” was the first thing Solo had said at the safehouse once Illya informed him of his plan. For the briefest moment, Illya wondered if he was going to try to convince him not to go. Instead, the American had fallen uncharacteristically silent, a look plastered across his face as if he were searching for something else to say. Illya had turned away from Solo’s wide eyes and back to the tracker then, pulling his case out from under the bed. They had remained like that for several seconds: Solo staring at his partner, Illya rooting through his case. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya caught a glimpse of Solo’s white shirt as he left the room.

Illya scowled as he watched Solo leave. He’d assumed he’d have help going after Gaby. He'd caught Solo checking the clock just as much as him, after all, and he’d followed Illya up the stairs and stuck around for him to turn on the tracker. Before Illya could think on it any further, Solo shuffled back into the room. He held a weathered, folded stack of paper in his hands. The man tossed it to him; with shaking hands, Illya opened it to reveal a map of Brussels.

Neither man discussed, or even considered, the possibility of what to do once the tracker stopped beeping. They’d both brought their guns, two apiece— a silent agreement between them as they’d thrown on jackets and made their way to the small garage of the safehouse. Ninety seconds into the car ride, with the American at the wheel and Illya beside him, tracking device on his lap, Solo had faltered.

“What do we do if-”

Illya had snapped his head to look at Solo. His jaw ached from where he’d ground his molars together. He felt his pointer finger tapping against the side of his leg.

“What do we do _when_ we get to her?”

Illya had noted the correction and silently wondered the same thing. In truth, he had no answer. He’d grappled, of course, with the chance that they were too late, that _he_ was too late, and that Gaby was compromised. The very thought made him ill, made him want to destroy things and hurt someone. All Illya could do by way of answer was clench and unclench his fist from the passenger seat of the car.

The pair said nothing for several minutes after, save the occasional direction from Illya. After a few minutes, Solo had broken the silence. He wondered if it was nerves, or if Solo, like Illya, was very much trying to convince himself that Gaby was okay.

“She’s going to murder you,” he’d said then, and he hadn’t stopped repeating himself since.

Although Illya remained silent, the question of _if_ reverberated in his mind. _If. If. If._ It was the only thing he could hear, louder than the groaning of the engine, louder than the seconds ticking by on his watch, the one sound Illya had learned to listen to above all others. Once, after Istanbul, when Illya’s rage had overcome him, Gaby had grabbed his face in her slender hands and pulled him down to her eye level. She’d grunted his name as he’d tried to pull away, her fingers fanning over his jawline and her nails digging lightly into his skin, forcing him to look at her.

“Illya,” she repeated. “It’s over. You need to calm down.”

He couldn’t speak. The pounding heartbeat in his ears had been too loud, as it always was, to focus on much else. He’d tried to focus on Gaby’s lips, on the splatter of blood dusting her cheekbone, the way the wind on the hill had blown a few strands of her hair across her face. Over Gaby’s shoulder, Cowboy restrained the thugs they’d been sent to retrieve, the same ones that had insulted Illya’s heritage and called Gaby a disgusting name.

“Illya.” Gaby had shouted then and shook Illya’s head between her hands, but only slightly. Her nails pressed deeper into Illya’s skin. “Listen,” she’d commanded.

“What?” Illya had growled through his teeth. Gaby’s eyes shifted. Leaving one hand on Illya’s face, she’d reached down by his side and unwound his fingers. His fist had been clenched, bloodied and bruised from hand-to-hand combat.

Gaby carefully took his hand in her own battered one and placed it next to his ear where hers had been. “ _Listen._ ”

He realized she was referring to his watch, the one Cowboy had returned on a sunny afternoon in Rome, the one that normally never left his wrist, the one he’d felt devastated at the loss of.

“Do you hear that?” Gaby’s eyes had been expectant, her lips pulled into a tight line. Illya had nodded and blinked, disoriented at the sudden silence that seemed to surround them. Where there had been wind and thunder and the roar of his own pulse, there was now only Gaby’s voice and the _tick tick tick_ from his father’s watch whispering in his ear.

Gaby’s lips parted, and when she exhaled, Illya felt his shoulders move with hers. “Doesn’t that sound-”

“Peril!”

It is Cowboy’s voice that now breaks Illya from his thoughts, the beeping from the tracker an alarm clock tearing him out of some dream. He blinks and remembers where he is. The car sits idle in the middle of a country road, but in the distance, Illya sees glimmering city lights.

“What?” he mutters, the memory from Istanbul slipping from his fingers.

“I said: what’s next?”

Cowboy’s eyes are impatient. Before Illya can respond, the sound of a gunshot shatters the silence of the early morning and reverberates in his ears.

 

\----------

 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

To Gaby, it is the only sound in the world.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

 _I shouldn’t have slept with it on,_ she thinks hazily, the watch around her wrist ticking in her ear. If she rolls over, into Illya’s side of the bed, perhaps she’ll find him still sleeping. She hopes he’ll stay in bed with her for a few hours instead of leaving for his morning run. A sleepy smile flits across Gaby’s face at the thought. Maybe he’ll make her breakfast if she’s lucky.

Gaby tries to move to where she hopes Illya will be, but finds that she can’t. Something is keeping her pinned to the bed. She jerks to her side again, and the motion causes her to shudder and cough, immediately overwhelmed by a searing pain in her ribs.

She opens her heavy eyelids and blinks a few times. She brings a hand to the bridge of her nose and pinches the skin there, hoping to relieve the ache in her skull and the buzzing in her ears she’s just begun to feel. She opens her eyes fully and gasps into the darkness that surrounds her. Where she expected the dull white of her bedroom ceiling, she sees a shattered windshield. Behind it, a confusing scene of night sky and open field. When Gaby tries to twist around to get a glimpse of her surroundings, her neck and shoulders scream with pain. She hisses through her teeth and groans, her eyes darting to the left. That’s when she sees it: a wrecked coupe, hovering several yards away. When she squints, she thinks she can make out a jagged mess of metal that used to be the hood. _Completely totaled_ , she thinks briefly before the two doors swing open. Two men step out from either side and the reality of Gaby’s night floods back to her.

 _“Schiebe,”_ she exhales. Now alert, she jerks her head around to the other side. Her vision blurs briefly from the pain. She remembers everything now- the coupe smashing into her Lotus, rolling off the road into the grass- as she takes in the state of her own car. Glass shards litter the interior, the windows are completely blown out, and her seatbelt presses tight against her chest and legs. She remembers too the knife fight in the alley, the wound at her ribs that throbs and is now hot to the touch. She brings a hand to her neck and winces from the pain.

She tries to release the latch of her seatbelt and wants to scream when her fingers, sticky with blood and sweat, fumble. Out of the broken window, she can see the two men from the coupe slowly approach her. Her fingers won’t operate properly, and Gaby cusses again and groans low in her throat. Glass from the windows glistens all around her, and before Gaby can think twice, she grabs a shard and cuts through the fabric of the seatbelt. Her hand throbs and hot blood runs down her palm and wrist as she frees herself. She crouches in the cab of the car like a caged animal as the two approaching men get close enough that she can make out their faces. _THRUSH lackeys_ , she thinks briefly, recognizing them from her many stakeouts at the factory.

 _Only seconds now_ , Gaby thinks as she scrambles through the wreckage. From just beyond the Lotus she can hear, over the furious beating of her heart, low voices growing louder. Her hand knocks against something and she flinches. Her bloody fingers meet cool metal and she relaxes, tightening her grip on her gun. She shoves it into the waistline of her pants and grabs at the passenger door. Thrusting it open, she hurls herself out, narrowly avoiding a bullet that _dings_ off the walls of the Lotus. Gaby tumbles out of the car and runs, briefly, before her body fails her again. Her knees give out and her feet tangle beneath her; suddenly, she is face down on the ground. She cries out in pain and struggles to her knees before the voices come up behind her.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” a mocking voice asks from above. Gaby spits out a mouthful of dirt, every inch of her body now searing with pain.

“You’re right.”

A heavy boot slams into Gaby’s side one, two, _three_ times until Gaby is on her back. Her fist slams into the ground and she screams at the throbbing pain that threatens to overwhelm her. The men standing above her laugh.

“What was that now?” asks another voice, lower and with an accent Gaby doesn’t recognize.

“I am a pretty girl.”

A gunshot cracks through the night air and Gaby’s shoulders lurch against the ground. A well-aimed bullet rips through the air into the lungs of one of the men. For one second, the three of them remain still. That’s when Gaby moves.

She lurches to the side and scrambles, as quickly as she can, to her feet. Beside her, a dead body hits the ground. She barely raises her gun again before a hand knocks it away and a foot collides with her stomach. She stumbles back as the other man advances, and for a moment, she sees moonlight reflect off his dark eyes. Another kick to her stomach, another to her ribs, and Gaby can’t breathe. She tries to duck, to block, to do anything to keep the man away from her. It doesn’t work, and a final kick to her sternum sends her crashing into the side of the Lotus.

Her head knocks against metal and Gaby thinks she hears a sound escape her lips. She launches fists where she cannot see and feels ears and jawline against her hands. Gaby keeps punching until air rushes toward her face and her opponent’s fist meets her nose. It stuns her. White spots blur the edges of Gaby’s vision, and for a moment too long, she is immobile. Another blow to her nose and she feels it break, feels her bones snap beneath her assailant’s relentless fist as blood seeps from both of her nostrils. Before she can recover, muscular hands close around her throat.

Gaby claws at the man’s face, can feel her legs tremble and her feet slip against the slick ground. The man in front of her grunts and grips tighter around her neck. Snarling, he shakes her as if she were a rag doll in his hands. Gaby opens her mouth to speak, to beg, to scream, but nothing comes out. Instead, the white clouds dotting her vision turn black and her heart roars frantically in her ears.

 _Is this it?_ Gaby wonders. Is this how she will end, beaten to death in the countryside by a man with black eyes and big hands? She had hoped this man, whose hands crush her throat like a twig, would not be the last thing she sees before she goes. A weak, blurry picture of Illya comes to her mind as Gaby claws at the last threads of consciousness. Will Illya find her body out here? _He doesn’t deserve this_ , Gaby thinks as her lungs prepare to burst.

He doesn’t deserve this. With her vision closing in on itself, Gaby forces herself to go limp, sliding down the length of the car. Her attacker seems aware only of the gurgling coming up from Gaby’s throat as she notices a twitch, almost a smile, flash across the man’s face. Her fingertips brush against the leather of her boots, fumbling for the lacquered handle of the knife Illya had sharpened and tucked away before she left. She pulls it from its sheath and plunges it into the man’s side. She buries it deep in his skin and twists, withdraws, thrusts up through his belly, and twists again. The man’s hands falter, and he grunts as Gaby removes the blade and stabs again. Hands clenched around Gaby’s neck fall away as she sends one final jab into his belly. The last thing Gaby sees is the light leave his eyes before his body falls to the ground.

  



End file.
